Will You be the Card up my Sleeve?
by CaffeineChic
Summary: Her voice is the vocalisation of a smile


His arms slide around her waist, pulling her gently against him as her hands close over his, her head leaning back against his shoulder.

"Bill." Her voice is the vocalisation of a smile. He can hear it in her tone, can visualise the upturn of her lips and the softness of her features before he turns enough to look at her and is met by the reality (always so much more potent). "What _is_ all this?" She gestures with their joint hands towards the table and the items it holds (three wrapped presents, breakfast laid out already).

His arms tighten around her as he kisses the side of her head (exposed as it is this time in the morning, before she dresses it with the cloth or wig), kisses her again just behind her ear before he whispers "Happy Birthday" into it. He feels her tense and then relax, the words hurting and healing her in a single moment. (He knows she thinks this could be her last one, but his hope and faith in that being wrong is sometimes enough to carry her forward.)

There is a hitch in her breath before she turns her face to his, seeking his mouth as he catches the kiss that she is offering. Somewhere between her lips and her tongue and her teeth, he finds the words "Thank you" as they unfold from her mouth to his (he needs no thanks for gifting her items when the fact that she has completed another year feels like a gift to him – he should be thanking her).

He pulls back and kisses the tip of her nose before walking them forward to the table. "You can open them, you know."

He can almost see the happiness building in her body, like a soft glow heating to shine more ardently. She is giving herself over to the moment. She is encompassed with light as far as he can see. It is exquisite to watch. He observes her now as she reaches out for one of the gifts, hand shaking slightly (last year she was on New Caprica – this is the first birthday they have celebrated between them. His is not for two more months. He is already holding the only gift he would ask for).

His hands slip to her waist and push her gently, moving to pull out a chair for her, to seat himself beside it as she lowers herself with the gift in hand. (It is wrapped in plain paper, as are the others.)

She grins widely as she unwraps it (careful with the paper, tearing it as little as possible), lifts the lid of the thin box beneath – drawings – of ships, of tents, of her (they have drawn her with hair in all of them)

She glances at him before taking the pages out to look at them better. "Some of your former students may have been told about your birthday..." She laughs and it is magical. He falls further under whatever spell she has been casting over him (for years now, he thinks – he is not complaining).

"_May_ have been told?"

He shrugs, unrepentant. He can tell from her face that she is imagining him gathering an army of small children to make these for her. This is not far from the truth.

"They wanted to deliver them themselves but..." he trails off (she would not have had the energy for that).

She reaches out a hand to squeeze his knee. "I want to thank them." Her tone is almost apologetic.

He realises the flaw in his plan. Of course she wants to thank them. They'll be equally as exhausting in receiving thanks as offering presents. "I'll organise it. Later in the week." (Before treatment, before she is so tired she can barely entertain him let alone energetic school children.)

He inclines his head toward the other gifts, stopping her as she reaches for one and nodding toward the other. "That one first." She grins, confused but willing to follow his lead.

"Oh... Bill." The fabric she removes from the box is delicate and soft – he caresses her with his eyes as she lets it stroke her skin. It is reds and whites, a motif of intricate swirls. A new headscarf (her white one she keeps safe, a gift from a passing and passed friend that she will hold but rarely wears). He knows she is tired of the green. He dares to hope she won't need it for long, but keeps the words guarded inside himself (here are some hopes that she cannot bear to hear). "It's beautiful."

She has pushed herself out of her seat and into his lap before he can tell her that it is a sham of beauty compared to her. But her mouth is currently occupying his with an equally important task. He hugs her to his body, running a hand up and down her thigh (slipping beneath her skirt). She mewls softly into his mouth, and he wishes this encasement of arms that he has her in could hold them both forever.

He removes his hand from her leg to reach around her toward the table, stretching for the final gift. The movement distracts her as she breaks the kiss, turning to meet the present as he hands it to her. Her forehead rests against his as she removes the wrapping (less delicately now), her eyes casting from him to the offering (resting more on him), until she holds it in her (trembling) hands – _Searider Falcon._

"But, it's your favourite."

"And it's your birthday." (You're my favourite, too.)

He kisses her softly, sealing off anything further, his hand stealing down her thigh again to the crook of her knee, tucking in behind it so that he can tickle the skin there, eliciting a sound that is a sigh, a hum, a giggle all at once.

The comm rings and they both swear. He manages to stand and deposit her in his chair in a fluid motion, moving to deal with the interruption. His eyes leave her only as long as necessary as she traces the title on the book, flips the pages lightly, closes it and hugs it to her chest. (They have finished it already – twice – but he knows they will be reading it again later).

When he comes back to her she is standing, putting her wig in place, smoothing her skirt. "Tory?"

He nods, wondering if he has time to barricade the hatch. "On her way. Is she coming tonight?"

"No, I... with Lee... I didn't ask her. They'll think we're setting them up."

The lie is wrapped in uneasy laughter. There is something not right between her and her aide that she has yet to tell him (he does not worry that she won't, only that something is bothering her). He lets the erroneousness of her words pass, helps her enshroud them with "Gotta get those grandchildren somehow."

Her laughter hits him in the chest as her fingers grasp the top of his lapel, her thumb circling the top button. "It's enough, you and Lee." (And being alive.)

It is, he thinks. (More than enough.)


End file.
